


Chris Wins a Trip to Rio

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Norrell and his research assistant might be onto something. They might <i>be</i> "something".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chris Wins a Trip to Rio

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by but not endorsed by bryony-ashley@tumblr's "Reunion" AU: [part 1](http://bryony-ashley.tumblr.com/post/128251295858/the-reunion-jonathan-strange-and-mr-norrell) \- [part 2](http://bryony-ashley.tumblr.com/post/128640367678/the-reunion-jonathan-strange-and-mr-norrell)
> 
> The latter one sent my brain on this spiral. This is not a shared universe and my fic isn't in any way part of Bryony's thing, it's just inspired by it. Also they're in Cambridge now, oops.

_September 2005_

 

“It's not a prophecy,” said Jonathan Strange. “It's a spell.”

“Of course it's a spell. The Raven King wouldn't bother to write a book for the purpose of _divination_.” Professor Norrell did not so much pace the room as wander around it picking up books, papers and folders. It was a comfortably sized office for a university professor, meaning that he found himself turning from one corner to the other with barely two steps in between. Jonathan pulled his long legs back under his rolling chair to let Norrell pass.

“So you do think there's a book.”

“Oh, there is a book,” said Norrell, stopping in front of his desk and frowning at his computer, which never pleased him, even after Jonathan had turned off the screensaver that had given him headaches. “Ten separate contemporary mentions? That's more than we have to prove that Ormskirk existed at all.”

Jonathan suppressed a grin. “That's not what you said in class, Gil.”

Norrell frowned at him briefly before turning to fiddle with a printout. “There is a book, but we neither have it, not could we read it if we did have it. There are some alphabets from early 18th century that claim to be Pictish that _might_ be based on the King's letters, or simply inspired by them. It could well be the only similarity between them is that they are written in blue ink. We do not even know if the writing would be phonetic or logographic, though the latter makes more--”

“What, blue like Vinculus?” He laughed. “He got that much right?”

“That's precisely the kind of thing that makes that man's act so popular,” scoffed Norrell. Privately Jonathan thought it was more likely the sleight of hand, the fireworks, or the body-piercing, but none of those could raise Norrell's ire like a hint of historical accuracy. “He must have some layman's knowledge about the King's letters. Everything's online now, I suppose. It's a disgrace.”

“You know, John Segundus says he and Professor Honeyfoot have been trying to transcribe his tattoos out of screenshots.”

“Ridiculous!”

“He thinks they've got the letters for 'shall', 'one and the other' and 'me'.” Norrell turned and stared at Jonathan, who quirked an eyebrow at him. “You'd know that if you talked to him, you know. Or any of the other professors.”

“Yes, I know,” said Norrell testily. “I would if they weren't all _wrong_.”

Jonathan laughed.

“Can you get his notes?”

Jonathan spread his hands. “He'll know who they're for. You might as well ask yourself.”

Norrell thought about it. “I'll ask Childermass. 'One and the other', you say? Two events or two people? Two kingdoms, perhaps?” He began to pace again.

Jonathan decided to stand up before someone got kicked in the shins. “You're serious,” he said. “Vinculus?”

Norrell flapped his hands at his sides anxiously. “He could have access to something we don't have. He _could_. Much of what we do know is from oral tradition. Childermass can look into his past. He might come from an old Yorkshire bloodline. Maybe? But then why not come to an academic?”

“Could you pay him what the Channel 4 is paying him?”

“You know I don't watch TV.” Norrell stopped before Jonathan and peered up at him.

“You'll have to talk to Professor Honeyfoot,” said Jonathan gently. “You can't just steal his idea.”

“Can't I?”

Jonathan shook his head from side to side with a wry smile: it said, 'I won't let you'. He could see in Norrell's eyes that he understood. The professor nodded slightly, looked away and cleared his throat. “I suppose it's getting late. Don't you have any classes today?”

“It's 7 pm.”

“Is it?”

“Chris is probably getting up right around now. Are you kicking me out?”

“I don't want to monopolize you.” Norrell retreated behind his desk and sat down.

“Since when? What are you hiding?”

“I'm not hiding anything!” Norrell had become very interested in a pile of student papers, which he turned around without pausing to read.

“We're in the middle of something and suddenly you need me to leave, right away. Never any explanations.” Jonathan leaned over the narrow desk to place his face inches away from Norrell's, where it could not be ignored. “What's going on?”

Norrell squirmed and avoided his eye. “Personal space, Jonathan.”

“Bollocks.”

“Please.”

Jonathan pulled the rolling chair under him and sat down with his arms crossed, glaring at Norrell. After a while, Norrell put down the papers with a sigh. “You're not leaving, are you.”

“I'm good enough to do your research for you, but in the end I'm just another post-doc, aren't I? Why should you tell me anything important?”

“It's personal and none of your business.”

“Hah! So there is something. Come on, Gil. We're friends too, aren't we? You don't have to tell me, just don't be such a berk about it. Is it me? Is there something about me that makes you think you can't trust me?”

“It _is_ you.”

Jonathan winced. “What's wrong with me? If you don't mind me asking.”

“Nothing, that's the problem. Please, Jonathan, just go. I promise I'll talk to Honeyfoot.”

The confusion that had scrunched up Jonathan's face cleared slowly. Mr Norrell leaned his head on his hands. After a moment's silence, Jonathan stood up coughed, started to laugh, and stopped abruptly. He picked up his coat and hesitated. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Before class. Yes.”

After the door closed behind him Norrell buried his face in his hands and groaned.

 

The Friends of English Magic had a standing reservation for Wednesdays at the Pickerel, though the number of people who actually showed up varied from week to week. Chris was always there, but Chris, it seemed, was always everywhere. He had been seen by reliable witnesses partying in at least five different bars at midnight last New Year's Eve. There was a rumour that he had memberships in ten private clubs in London, six of which were respectable. Nobody knew where his money came from. Today he was wearing Dior, as anyone within earshot could tell. Henry was, too, but Henry never made a fuss about these things. He expected you to know.

Emma stared into her drink. Childermass (no-one called him John) sat back and chain-smoked in silence. Jonathan sat frowning at the empty air. Arabella was about ready to give Jonathan a little kick under the table to signal that he should drive her home so they could cuddle and watch Doctor Who when Jonathan said to no-one in particular, “Did you know Norrell was gay?”

Chris yowled in victory. Henry made a disgusted sound and threw up his hands.

“ _You_ knew,” Jonathan told Childermass, who shrugged.

“Hold on,” said Henry. “Be specific. Did he make a pass or did it just come up? And by it I mean the subject, not his penis.”

“Fuck off, Henry.”

“He made a pass,” said Chris, nodding. “I win. Henry, darling, you owe me a weekend in Rio.”

Emma snorted. Arabella gave Jonathan a sympathetic look.

“Why is it that you two are here every Wednesday?" Jonathan gestured to Henry and Chris. "You're not even Tabs.”

“Because I run the fucking paper, Johnny. Without me you're not the Friends of English Magic, you're just Friends.”

“Don't call me Johnny.”

“What should I call you? Rachel?”

“Jonathan,” Arabella said with some urgency.

“Let's get out of here.” Jonathan stood up. Arabella followed with an apologetic glance at the others.

“Brilliant,” said Emma to Childermass after they were gone. “Surrounded by dicks and still gay.”

“Same,” said Chris happily.

 

The car was Jonathan's, but Arabella was the designated driver. He slouched in the passenger seat as if trying to sink into the faux leather, the screen of his phone a square of bright green in the darkness. He looked to Arabella like the sulky teenager he had been all those years ago when he'd spent most afternoons and Saturday mornings before practice on the beat-up couch of her parents' house, playing video games with Henry ( _her_ Henry) or watching whatever TV Mum had had on, whether EastEnders or Countdown.

“You want to talk about it?”

Jonathan sighed and stuffed his phone in his pocket. “I feel like a prat. I thought he just liked me. You know, _me_ , not...” He gestured with both hands to his face and torso.

“I know, Jonathan. Your good looks are such a burden.”

“We were getting somewhere! He was starting to tell me things he never talks about in any of his lectures. Is this what it like for women in academia? To get anywhere you've got to diddle the professor?”

“I'm a baker,” Arabella reminded him. “Did Norrell ask you to diddle him?”

“Well, no.”

“What happened?”

Jonathan didn't say anything. They drove on in silence.

“If he's harassing or pressuring you, you should file a report.”

“It wasn't like that.”

“All right, then.”

Arabella rounded a corner and slowed down. At this hour on Wednesday the street outside Jonathan's townhouse was lined on both sides with parked cars. She found a spot between a van and a Mercedes and squeezed her Honda in.

“What should I do, Bell?”

“Well,” she said as she turned off the engine, “remember me at 13?”

“Ouch,” said Jonathan.

“You broke my heart.”

“I have apologized.”

“But you did the right thing.”

“Did I?”

Arabella nodded. “You can't lead someone on about how you feel. If that's a problem for Norrell, you need to cut loose, even if it means losing the job.” At this Jonathan frowned. “By the way, it isn't just academia. Bakeries can be just as bad. I do know what I'm talking about.”

“So what do I tell him?”

Arabella spread her hands. “The truth.”

Jonathan thought about this for a moment, then smiled. “I taped new Who.”

“Fifth Doctor or I'm leaving.”

“Both?”

“We start with Fifth and you're on.”

 

It was 8 am in the morning. Jonathan pushed his hands into his pockets against the early chill and looked up to the second third floor window in the Faculty of History. It lit up, on the dot. Norrell's routine did not vary. Jonathan keyed himself in.

He didn't bother knocking. Norrell was behind his computer with a cup of tea, which he nearly spilled at the sight of him. “Mind if I come in?”

Norrell didn't respond, fussing instead with the tea stain on his cardigan. Jonathan tossed him a packet of paper towels and sat down in the same rolling chair he'd been wearing down for the past year and a half.

“Thank you,” said Norrell slowly, and cleaned himself up. The process seemed to calm his nerves enough to enable pleasantries, and they exchanged their good mornings. “You're up early, I see.”

“We rather left things hanging last night.”

“Yes,” said Norrell, avoiding his eye, but there was something relieved about his manner, too. “About Vinculus. I watched a tape last night, but it was dreadfully blurry. I have a two o'clock with Honeyfoot,” he added quickly. “Perhaps... perhaps I _should_ consult with others more. I rather thought I would have to find a new, er... someone else to talk to about our research. It might as well be Honeyfoot.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Jonathan watched as Norrell took off his glasses and rubbed temples for a moment. “Jonathan, about-- about what I-- I think there may have been a misunderstanding. If you want to find another professor to work with, I understand, but I promise – I absolutely promise that I will not say or do anything of the sort again. If you could forget it ever happened, I would appreciate it. I will be more open with you, if you like. Just don't... please don't get the wrong idea.”

Jonathan considered this. “I'm not sure. Are you going to keep chasing me out every time you're overwhelmed by how handsome my face is?”

“Jonathan.” There was a note of reprimand in the pronunciation.

“For a moment there you sounded just like Bell.”

“I am sensible of my position, Jonathan, and what your feelings must be on this point. Furthermore I cannot work if instead of research I am thinking about what it would... what it would feel like to hold your hand. It's not professional! Trust me, I don't want it to be this way. This has never happened before.” He looked so miserable that something moved in Jonathan's chest, something much too satisfied to be pity, like a cat shifting to position itself for petting.

“All right, Gil,” said Jonathan, and reached over the table to take one of Norrell's small hands in his own. It was cool and dry, and the skin shifted under his touch. “There we go. Mystery solved.”

The looked at each other for a while, Norrell's face twisted in consternation. The metaphorical cat in Jonathan's chest purred.

“What are we, Jonathan?” asked Norrell.

“I don't know.” Jonathan squeezed. “We'll figure it out.”


End file.
